Andi

There’s a peculiar quiet that exists only after midnight—too dark for optimism, too awake for denial. It’s in that hour that my phone becomes a judge of my weaknesses. I lie there, face aglow in the cold light of the screen, pretending I'm above all this cheap craving for validation. It’s a laughable delusion. Because the truth is: I am terrified of wanting to be wanted. Wanting invites disappointment, and I have already collected more than any person deserves. I scroll through profiles like an archeologist sifting through ruins—evidence of lives that look intact from a distance but crumble if you inspect too closely. Everyone smiles like happiness is easy. Everyone promises adventure. No one mentions how it feels to be left behind by someone who swore they understood you. Every match feels like a resurrection of hope I’ve tried to bury. I craft messages that walk the tightrope between aloof and eager. I wait for responses that may never come. When they do, the dopamine surge feels like a betrayal of my own intelligence. I once loved someone so completely that I didn’t see myself disappearing until I was already gone. Nights like this, I wonder if I’m searching for a face that resembles his, or for a future that doesn’t ache. Either would explain why I can’t stay away from these digital rituals. Eventually, my battery threatens death, and I toss the phone aside like it’s the one who chased me. I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll delete everything again. Tomorrow I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow, I will not swipe. But tonight, hope—foolish, stubborn hope—still whispers: What if?